


Moments in Time

by KaiahAurora



Series: The Adventures of Aragorn and Legolas [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Violence, basically everyone gets hurt and no one's okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-13 12:39:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4522341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaiahAurora/pseuds/KaiahAurora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lord of the Rings movies, as seen by Aragorn and Legolas. There was much more to the story than meets the eye, and not all of it was good. From the Prancing Pony to Aragorn's coronation, the brothers still manage to get into trouble. Non-slash, but heavy bromance, and lots of angsty angst. Some fluff and a bit of humour. Obviously spoilers for all movies and books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prancing Pony

**Author's Note:**

> This story is going to have a buttload of angst. There will be some pretty heavy trigger warnings, and I'll put those at the beginning of each chapter as they apply. Let me know what you think!

Aragorn sat in the Prancing Pony, smoking his pipe and generally not enjoying himself. Men were disgusting. Everyone was drinking and slobbering and belching and generally being distasteful. The fact that he also happened to be a man was completely irrelevant. The fact that his brothers gave him endless amount of grief for being dirty all the time was also not of importance. Even with the influence of living for years with the rangers, Aragorn was raised by elves, and the blood of the Dúnedain ran through his veins. He was not- Oh, Valar, someone just threw up beside him. Healers were used to vomit. Aragorn was a healer. Therefore, vomit was absolutely disgusting and horrible, especially when it consisted entirely of ale.

If Gandalf had not practically begged him to show up and save middle earth, he would have left the moment he arrived. Bree was a nice place, but its people were not. The sooner he left with the hobbits, the better.

The folk in the pub gave him strange looks. The rangers had a bad reputation around these parts, and as he had given the name Strider, he had been treated with more mistrust that usual. Having chosen a spot in the corner, Aragorn was able to keep an eye on the goings on in the pub, while being out of the way. His hood was drawn and his pipe was lit, something that he was unable to do when around his family - not that it mattered. They weren't his family any longer, not if his father had any say in the matter.

And that's when the hobbits walked in, pulling Aragorn from his thoughts and reminding him of the job to be done. He had been told to expect two of them, but for some reason they had multiplied, and they looked frightened. For a moment, he watched them, making sure that they were in fact the hobbits he'd been sent to retrieve. They ordered drinks and glanced around nervously, clearly uncomfortable. Unfortunately, he may have been slightly less than subtle, as one of the Halflings pointed him out to another, and then Butterbur told them something about him, and they became suspicious. This was going well.

A few of the men around the bar started glancing at one of the hobbits, the one that Aragorn assumed to be Frodo, based off Gandalf's description. It took him only a moment to guess that the Ring was calling to him. Oh, yes, this was going well, indeed. He'd flaunt the Ring and then put it on and Aragorn would have to deal with both the Nazgûl and a bar fight. Suddenly, he almost wished that he hadn't come alone. This entire scenario would be so much simpler if he had one of his brothers or a ranger to help him, but no, Aragorn, son of Arathorn was a moron.

"Baggins? Sure, I know a Baggins! He's over there - Frodo Baggins..."

Well, that cleared that up, at least. As Frodo started to move through the crowd towards his friend at the bar, Aragorn lowered his pipe, watching carefully. Things had the potential to go very bad very quickly, and he wanted to be able to stop that if at all possible. Of course, the Ring flying into the air was not exactly something he'd wanted to see. Straightening, Aragorn could barely see the young hobbit disappear. Oh, wonderful.

The hobbit appeared just as Aragorn reached him, and after a quick glance around, he grabbed the Halfling and pinned him against the wall.

"You draw far too much attention to yourself, Mr. Underhill," he hissed, and he couldn't help it if he sounded just the tiniest bit terrifying.

The entire situation was very, very bad, and they needed to get out of there, as soon as possible. Except, not, because the Nazgûl would run them down within hours. A plan, then. Something clever and deceitful. Luckily, Aragorn had had many chances to practice in that particular area, thanks to twin brothers and a slightly narcissistic friend. He'd think of something.

He strode across the room, pushing the hobbit ahead of him and up the stairs.

"What do you want?"

Not to have to fight off the nine black riders, but so much for that. "A little more caution from you; that is no trinket you carry."

"I carry nothing."

Honestly? "Indeed." Sarcasm was his best defence at this point. "I can avoid being seen if I wish, but to disappear entirely? That is a rare gift."

Okay, perhaps the dramatic hood-reveal was a bit theatrical, but he needed the Halfling to understand the gravity of the situation. It was entirely possible that they were in for a fight, and it was not just their lives at stake.

"Who are you?"

"Are you frightened?"

"Yes."

Well, good. "Not nearly frightened enough. I know what hunts you."

He glanced towards the door, his instincts telling him that something bad was coming. The hobbit looked frightened, and he thought that perhaps he was starting to understand. At the sound of running feet, Aragorn took up a defensive position and drew his sword, ready for a fierce fight. Of course, three half-sized people brandishing a candelabra and a stool weren't exactly life-threatening.

The front-most hobbit had called him Longshanks, though. That was unexpected. Had he used that name here before? He honestly could not remember. Probably should stick to one name per place, though, or people would get suspicious. More suspicious, that was.

"You have a stout heart, little hobbit, but that will not save you."

Oh, good, and now they thought that he was going to kill them. Perhaps he did need to work on his "personable" skills, as some had not-so-subtly suggested in the past. He couldn't have them running off and getting themselves killed before they got to Imladris. Time to change tactics.

"You can no longer wait for the wizard, Frodo. They're coming."

XXX

Aragorn heard the gate being broken down, and the wraiths that rode through the streets. They came into view - four of them, dressed in black robes. He was no elf, but Aragorn could practically smell the evil coming from them all the same. Watching from the window across the street, he saw them enter the Prancing Pony, saw them as they got into the room and took position. Their swords hitting the pillows woke one of the hobbits, Sam. Their shrieks woke the other two, and probably the rest of Bree.

The hobbits were looking at him, and sooner or later one of them would ask.

"What are they?"

Frodo looked frightened, and rightly so. These were dangerous creatures. He didn't want the hobbits to underestimate the situation, but he also wanted them to trust him to be able to help them. He would get them to Imladris safely; he had made a promise. Shuffling slightly, Aragorn hoped that none of them had realized that he was clutching his sword like a security blanket.

"They were once men, great kings of men. Then, Sauron the Deceiver gave to them nine rings of power. Blinded by their greed, they took them without question, one by one falling to darkness. Now, they are slaves to his will. They are the Nazgûl - Ring wraiths, neither living nor dead. At all times they feel the presence of the Ring, drawn to the power of the One. They will never stop hunting you."

As he spoke, Aragorn kept glancing at the window, making sure that their hurried plan had worked and that the wraiths were leaving. That wasn't the only reason why he continually tore his attention from the rapt attention of the hobbits, though. He was descended from Isildur, another king of the past who had fallen to the draw of the Ring. If his ancestors hadn't been able to fight its call, how could he? For not the first time, Aragorn felt a shiver of fear crawl up his spine. He had sworn to protect these hobbits, but what if he, himself, became a threat?

XXX

They left with the sunrise, making up for the time that was lost with the wraiths' invasion. Slowing his pace to accommodate for the hobbits' size, Aragorn still worried that he was pushing them too far. He had the old blood of elves in his veins, and he had been dragged along by hyperactive brothers through most of his early life - he knew how to run for days on end. The Halflings, though, they were weary even after their short trip to Bree, and they still did not trust him.

"Where are you taking us?" Sam asked, always by Frodo's side, as though protecting him from Aragorn.

"Into the wild."

As much as he worried for the pace he had set, it was not enough to slow him down. They carried the most dangerous possession in Endor, possibly all of Arda, and without the protection of the elves they were completely exposed. The sooner they got to Imladris, the safer they would be.

They made it out of Bree, and Aragorn had led them deep into Chetwood before he heard the hobbits whispering amongst themselves.

"How do we know this 'Strider' is a friend of Gandalf's?"

Well, he did have a point.

"I think a servant of the enemy would look fairer... feel fowler."

That was it. Aragorn was having a bath when he got back to Rivendell - not that he would have much of a choice, if his father had any say in the matter. It was not his fault if he hadn't had time to clean himself in the past...year, but that was no one's business but his and his annoyingly clean brothers'.

"He's fowl enough."

Fine, fine, he'd bathe. He could take a suggestion, occasionally.

"We have no choice but to trust him."

He could practically feel the mistrust radiating from Merry, but the other three were accepting enough.

"But where's he leading us?"

Smiling to himself, Aragorn told them their destination. If he was putting his life on the line, he might as well let them know that he could hear them. His smile faded as he mentioned that it was the House of Elrond. He wasn't looking forward to that particular part of the journey.

At least one of the hobbits was excited to meet the elves, and that was no surprise. If it were possible, Aragorn would change into one of the fair folk in a heartbeat. Having grown up around them, he'd always felt inadequate, annoyingly perfect as they were. Hopefully the hobbits would be able to appreciate their stay, even if it was for a dangerous cause.

Of course it started raining, and Aragorn was constantly checking over his shoulder to make sure that none of the hobbits had fallen too far behind. There was snow on the ground, and it was cold. Drawn into his own thoughts of what awaited him at home, Aragorn missed the lack of footsteps until he heard the kitchenware banging. That wasn't right.

He turned to see the hobbits well on their way to cooking something. What by the Valar were they doing? Did they not know that they were in the most danger that they had ever been in? But when he informed them, gently enough, that they wouldn't be stopping for a good long while, they said that it was breakfast. A look of confusion crossed his face. Hobbits were certainly strange creatures.

Pippin went on to explain that a second breakfast was required. Aragorn gave him a look and continued walking. He hadn't signed up for this. After a moment, though, he felt bad. From the little he knew of Halflings, it was obvious that they were unused to life in the wild. It was possible that many days hunting with his brothers coupled with the life of a ranger had removed him from the regular ways of travel. Sighing, he grabbed a few apples from his bags and tossed them back. Now, at least it could be said that he'd made the effort not to let them starve.

They emerged into Midgewater, and Aragorn was quickly reminded why he hated nature. They were all soaked, frozen, covered in marsh waters, and bombarded with bloodthirsty insects. As darkness fell and they were still not halfway through the marsh, Aragorn accepted that they would have to make camp for the night. After searching for a good long while to find a bit of solid ground, he left the hobbits to make their supper while he hunted for some game. It didn't take him long to find and bring down a stag, and the relief in the hobbits' eyes at having something hot to eat was reward enough in itself.

After eating, the hobbits were obviously exhausted, and Aragorn told them to get some rest. He was used to nights of no sleep, and he wouldn't chance being caught unawares. With a pipe in hand and his cloak wrapped tightly around him, Aragorn sang a soft tune that his father had taught him, many years ago. Frodo's voice startled him, and he almost felt embarrassed - not so much for his lack of awareness, though that was a bit concerning, but more as though he had been caught in a private moment. It was just that the song, all about an elf-maiden's love and consequent death for a mortal man, was so relevant at the moment. He had given up on his dream of Arwen long ago, but the memory still pained him. The fact that his father, or rather, her father, had shown him what a bad idea it was didn't help. Soon, he would be facing Elrond again, for the first time since announcing his love for his adoptive sister to his family.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he told Frodo to get some rest. They had a long journey ahead of them.


	2. Weathertop

They reached Amon Sûl in good time, probably evident by the fact that the hobbits collapsed the moment they arrived. He knew that the Halflings needed to rest, but something didn't feel right. It was too quiet, the air too still, and if his elfish brothers had instilled anything in his mind it was to trust his instincts. There was a darkness around them, something that couldn't be accounted for solely by the presence of the Ring. Aragorn waited for the hobbits to settle, noting with some concern that Frodo fell asleep almost immediately. How long had he been carrying this burden, and how much more would it drain him before they reached Imladris?

"I'm going to have a look around," Aragorn muttered to the Halflings. "Stay quiet and don't draw any attention to yourselves. The Nazgûl may still be on our trail."

The hobbits nodded at him, wide-eyed, and he slipped down the side of the old fortress. Amon Sûl was built high above the surrounding landscape, and the ranger looked out over the grasslands uneasily. There was no sign of any danger, but something told him to keep watch. If there was to be a fight, he would need to be on guard. Of course, there was no way to defend all the hobbits on his own. It was time to gift the Halflings with the daggers that Gandalf had insisted they take. The hobbits were unused to the blades - had probably never defended themselves against more than a drunken friend in their lives - but it was all he could do to try and keep them alive. Sooner or later, Aragorn had the feeling that they would use them.

As he had expected, the four had no idea how to even handle the swords. They regarded them as something dangerous, and Aragorn sent off a quick prayer to the Valar that they wouldn't have to kill, at least not while he was around to guard them. Now that they were armed, though, Aragorn knew that he had to search the surrounding area. Something was deeply amiss, and he wouldn't be able to find out what from the tower. He would have to stay close to Amon Sûl in case of an ambush, but if possible he needed the upper hand. Sighing, he hefted his pack against his shoulder, resigning himself to a night without sleep. He just hoped that the hobbits would have enough sense to leave someone on guard while the others slept.

Aragorn was almost a half a league away when he glanced back, simply to make sure that all was well. What he saw instead, though, was the glowing light of a fire reflected off the stones of Amon Sûl like a beacon. He started to run back, intent on stopping himself just short of murdering the idiots who decided to put all of their lives in danger. And then he heard the raised voices, and ran faster. And then he heard the shrieks. Aragorn was Dúnedain, raised by elves, but he knew in his heart that he would not reach the hobbits in time.

As he ran, breath ringing ragged in his ears, he saw the five figures stalking towards the tower. Usually, five against five would have been easy, no matter the opponents. However, this time it was more like five against one, and he was at a disadvantage having to protect the hobbits, which limited his range of motions. Of course, there was also the fact that his opponents were undead wraiths who could not be killed and yet excelled at killing others. Thanking Valar that the hobbits at least had the sense to climb to a more defendable position and higher ground, Aragorn reached the base of Amon Sûl and began to climb. His instincts began to scream at him the moment he could no longer see the hobbits, urging him to go faster, but some small part of his mind reminded him in a voice alarmingly similar to his father's that he needed a plan. There were five of them, surrounding four basically unarmed hobbits. It was impossible to fight them all off. Just as Aragorn reached the lower level of the tower, his eyes fell upon the dying embers of the fire.

Grabbing a discarded torch, Aragorn scraped the fabric along the fire pit, barely stopping to make sure it caught before drawing his sword and racing to the upper level. The only thing that consoled him was that he heard no screaming, either from a dying hobbit or his friends. However, he could practically feel the Ring's voice calling him, and he wasn't even the one carrying it. Aragorn scrambled over the top of the tower just in time to hear Frodo groan in pain. Not stopping to see if the hobbit was dead, he slashed at the Nazgûl nearest to him with the torch, driving it away. He couldn't see Frodo, but his pained moans told him that he was somewhere behind him. Aragorn swung the torch in a wide arc, driving the wraiths back. He heard the cry, saw Sam run for Frodo out of the corner of his eye, but there were five Nazgûl bearing down on him. As he made the mistake of glancing over at the hobbits, one of the wraiths caught him in the chest and shoved him backward, making him stumble. He leapt back just as a wraith sword made to cut him in half, and in a wild lunge he set one of them on fire.

Their screeches filled the air, and it was all he could do to keep his feet as a sword clashed against his own, almost pressing him to the ground. He was tiring quickly, unused to opponents as skilled at these, and hissed in relief as some of them began to flee. Driving another from the tower with the threat of setting it ablaze, Aragorn stumbled to a pause to catch his breath. Of course, it couldn't be over so easily. He felt rather than saw the Nazgûl behind him, and allowing himself a small smile, he tossed the torch and hit the monster right in the face. He followed it for a few paces, just to make sure it was in full retreat, and then ran to Frodo.

The other three Halflings were crowded around him, obviously terrified by his groans of pain. As a healer, Aragorn was frightened as well. Those were the sounds of a dying man. It didn't help at all when Sam called out for him, all sense of mistrust abandoned in his desperation. Coming to his knees in front of Frodo, Aragorn caught sight of the weapon that confirmed his worst fears. He held up the sword, frowning at the cursed object.

"He's been stabbed by a Morgul-blade," Aragorn breathed, almost reeling away as the blade crumbled in his hand. "This is beyond my skill to heal. He needs elfish medicine."

Gathering up the hobbit in his arms, Aragorn couldn't help the feeling of dread that crept up upon him. This was not good. Unless they got Frodo to Imladris and Elrond in the next few hours, he would turn into a Nazgûl as well. That's what the shards of the Ringwraith swords did. And there was little to no chance that they would make it to Imladris in time, especially with nothing larger than a pony to ride and three other hobbits who couldn't be left unattended. It would take over three days to reach Imladris on foot with Frodo to carry, but with the other it would be nearly a week. Frodo was going to die.

Slinging the Halfling over his shoulder in probably a very painful way, Aragorn skidded down the tower and the rocks below it, trusting the other hobbits to at least be smart enough to keep up. He ran into the forest, and only then did he slow his pace enough for the other three to catch up. Sam was yelling at him, saying that they were still six days from Rivendell - as though he wasn't keenly aware of the fact. Every moment that passed was another chance for Frodo to slip away. They needed to do something, or he would be dead before morning.

"Hold on, Frodo," Aragorn breathed, scanning the forest for any signs of danger. If they were attacked now, there was a very good chance that they would all be killed.

Frodo was crying out, sometimes wordless screams, other times begging for Gandalf. Aragorn thought of the trust that the old wizard had placed in him, and quickened his pace. He would not fail them, not Gandalf, not Frodo, and not the three small Halflings desperately keeping pace despite their exhaustion and fear. They were in Ruhdaur, in the Trollshaws forest to the west of Imladris. They had only a few hours to go - had been running nonstop for several hours already - but Frodo was fading fast. They were still just at the edge of the forest, and it would take maybe two days to get through. Frodo would not last that long. Aragorn had only stopped to give the fading Halflings a small rest, but he had one faint idea that might save Frodo for a little while longer.

Glancing along the ground, Aragorn growled in frustration as he didn't immediately see what he was looking for. He knew this forest well, had been traipsing through it with his brothers for most of his life, and yet for all Valar he could not find a simple healing herb. Frodo gasped in pain, and Aragorn glanced over to see Sam trying to sooth him. He was trying to distract him with some mention of Bilbo's trolls, and Aragorn briefly wondered how much the hobbits knew of the quest to reclaim the mountain, and just how much of Gandalf's favourite party tales were true. For a moment, the situation didn't look quite so bleak. And then Sam said that Frodo was going cold. Aragorn looked away from the small group, partly to search for the Athelas, and partly so he wouldn't have to see the fading life force that he was supposed to save.

"Is he going to die?"

Pippin's worried voice made him turn around. They deserved to know that their friend would not die, but the truth was no more reassuring. The Shadow World was nothing to be pleased about. As Frodo cried out, the voices of the wraiths joined his cry, spooking the pony and hobbits alike. He needed to slow the poison. Aragorn closed his eyes, trying to think of anything that could help him find the Athelas in time. Then, a small piece of one of the hobbits' conversations came back to him. Sam was a gardener. Perhaps, just perhaps, he knew of the precious plant.

As he called the hobbit over, the others continued to glance around nervously. They needed to search for the plant, but to leave Frodo and the others unattended in this dangerous forest could sentence them to death. As Sam took off, Aragorn glanced around the camp once more before heading off with him. He kept low to the ground, both from force of habit and so he could see the underbrush more clearly. Aragorn was so relieved when he found the unassuming white flowers that he momentarily dropped his guard. As he had learned from his brothers, a moment was all it took, and he cursed himself as a blade pressed against his throat.

His fear turned to confusion as the blade lifted his head - that was no wraith or orcish blade. He knew even before he heard the voice that he was safe - that they were all saved. As Arwen gently mocked him, the relief mingled with other feelings and he smiled despite himself. He didn't think that he would ever see her again, and now she was saving his life. Again. There was no time to let his feelings get in the way, though. He explained the situation in a few short words, and she vaulted onto her horse before he could even tell her where they had made camp.

The hobbits were wary of her, but Aragorn had no time to explain as he chewed the leaves, letting the magical properties of his saliva bond to the plant and praying that it would be enough. Arwen was looking into his fae, and she muttered that he was fading. Aragorn tried not to wince as she said  _her_  father, and lifted Frodo into his arms once more. Ignoring the protests and worried questions from the other hobbits, Aragorn carried Frodo towards Arwen's horse, frowning at the mention of five wraiths trailing them. Despite knowing that elfish speed and endurance would find Frodo in Imladris much quicker than if he took him, Aragorn was loathed to send Arwen out with five Nazgûl following her. Switching to elfish so the hobbits wouldn't understand, he tried to convince her to stay, even as he realized there was nothing he could say to convince her. Stay with the hobbits. The road is too dangerous - the East Road, the quickest way to Imladris and the most likely rout the Nazgûl would be taking.

He begged her, trying to convince her, but in his heart Aragorn knew that he could not let Frodo die for his worries. Arwen was an elf, and she could protect herself. But it didn't mean that he had to like it. As Arwen insisted that the power of the elves would protect her, Aragorn couldn't help but worry that even their magic could not last against such evil. He took her hand for a brief moment, and then helped her mount. They were all in great danger, but Aragorn knew that the wraiths would follow the Ring.

"Ride hard. Don't look back."

We will be safe, we can defend ourselves. Just please, don't die in this venture.

"What are you doing?" Sam bellowed, echoing Aragorn's own thoughts. "Those wraiths are still out there!"

If only they knew what this was doing to him. After a moment longer, Aragorn turned away, determined to get to Imladris as soon as was at all possible.


	3. Calm Before the Storm

Legolas rode into Imladris with a heavy heart, which was rare for him. He was about to see Aragorn for the first time since the man had delivered the creature Gollum into his care, and meet with Elrond, who was a second father to him, and Arwen, who he had not seen in decades. However, Mirkwood – he did not even bother calling it Greenwood anymore – remained under control of the dark. Thranduil had been deeply affected by it, as had his people. The once proud race of the Elves of Greenwood had dwindled into shadows of their former selves. To crown it all, Legolas was only riding to Rivendell to discuss the fate of the One Ring, which would probably end with everyone suffering from a case of death.

As Legolas dismounted from his mare, he looked around him with growing unease. It was obvious that Mirkwood hadn't been the only region affected by Sauron's power. The Last Homely House looked more like the Executioner's Entertainment. The other elves in his riding party sensed it as well, dismounting quietly and leading their horses to the stables. No boisterous Imladris elves came to greet them, and those who took their horses were solemn and quiet, nothing like their usual selves. Even when old friends met, it was with a small greeting and clasped hands, not laughing and dancing about. Legolas called his party to him, telling them to get settled in their rooms. The meeting of the fate of Middle Earth would be the following day. Until then, try and rest, and don't kill any dwarves.

Most of the Mirkwood elves retired the moment they were shown to their rooms, but Legolas couldn't rest. He wandered the halls of Imladris, taking in the achingly familiar sights he hadn't seen in decades. Everything was in exactly the same place that it had been in for the past hundred years, but Rivendell was undeniably different. No music filtered through the halls, no grand feasts had famed warriors rolling around laughing, and even the very fäe of the place seemed to have diminished. Just like in Mirkwood, the elves were leaving. They had no place left in Arda anymore. Far better to retreat from its evil and live safely in Valinor.

Legoals found himself near the hall of healing, smiling softly at all the fond memories that arose of being stitched up and staring down death. All of those occasions had been fun, brought on by misguided hunting trips or ridiculous pranks. Now the halls of Imladris, as well as those in Mirkwood, were filled with the fading and the lost. No one could escape the dark. Legolas turned away.

"Las," a familiar voice rang out, and instantly the elf was crushed in Aragorn's embrace. "I've missed you."

The elf returned the hug fiercely, revelling in this one moment of familiarity in a changing world. It had been far too long. But even this had changed - rather than yammering his ear off or playfully chasing him around the halls, Aragorn was simply holding him, as though he was trying to hide from the world just as much as Legolas. Letting out a small, humourless laugh, Legolas simply gripped him tighter.

"It's been far too long, Estel."

"You have no idea."

Eventually they broke apart, taking a moment to study each other. Legolas wondered if they would actually comment on how dreadful they looked, but thankfully Aragorn seemed willing to go sit in the library and talk. This turned out to be no better, though, because for the first time in decades there was an air of awkward tension between them. Legolas didn't want to mention Elrond, or Arwen, or how long it had been since Aragorn had set foot in Imladris. And, he imagined, Aragorn was mulling over asking just how hopeless the fight against the Shadow had been for the Mirkwood elves recently. The only other topic for discussion was why they were both in Rivendell, but somehow the impending doom of the world didn't seem like the best conversation starter.

"How has that new bow been coming?" Legolas tried after the silence became a touch too uncomfortable.

"You know full well that ten years old is not new, Las," Aragorn reprimanded, but his voice was soft and grateful, with no real sting. "And it's working beautifully, which you knew full well, because you helped me make it."

Legolas shrugged. "True, but you have had it all to yourself for a decade. It's entirely possible that you had damaged it irreversibly somehow or another."

Aragorn snorted, and the two chuckled. As a more comfortable silence fell between them, though, Legolas could see Aragorn's concern rising to the surface. He sighed, waiting for the man to find the right phrasing. There was no need to start the conversation before its due time. Legolas began redoing one of his braids, before seeing Aragorn staring at him worriedly. Of course, playing with his hair was one of his nervous traits - his only one, in fact. Legolas sighed, lowering his hands and turning to face his friend.

"How go things in Greenwood, Leglas, truly?"

"Not well, Aragorn." The elf closed his eyes, taking in a slow breath. "The darkness has spread through the forest and into the very hearts of its people. We battle on, as we are wont to do, but it is useless. Every day our kin leaves for Valinor and yet we fight the call, staying to fight for something we cannot hope to win. My people are dying, Aragorn, and it is all for nothing." He paused. He had told no one of this, not even his subjects, but if there was one person in all of Arda that his trusted it was the man before him. "My father is ill. That is why he sent me to this meeting - he can barely act as King. Although he is not fading, I wonder how long he can fight the call. Very soon, he will be forced to sail, or die in his ruined kingdom."

It feel good, strangely enough, to say those things out loud. They had been weighing heavily on Legolas for years now, and being able to share those thoughts in confidence seemed to lighten the weight pressing down on him, even if he knew that Aragorn could do nothing to help. The man knew it as well, and he pressed his lips together.

"Will you be alright in Imladris, though, with the presence of the One Ring?"

Legolas sighed. "As evil as the Ring may be, its presence has not tainted Elrond's land the way it has my father's. Despite its close proximity, my people are faring much better here than they do in our own kingdom."

They both sighed at that - it was not exactly reassuring. There was no land or sanctuary in Arda that the Shadow had not touched... except perhaps the shire. Legolas could see Aragorn's face light up as he began to spin the tale of a magical land full of small men who could grow anything out of the ground and ate more in one sitting than an elf did in an entire year.

XXX

Aragorn sat in one of the least-travelled halls in Imladris, his eyes on a book. Legolas had excused himself about an hour ago, after their conversation had lasted until dusk, claiming that he needed to speak to Elrond. Aragorn hadn't anticipated feeling so anxious at being left alone, and so had retreated to where he hoped that no one would find him. These hopes were shattered, though, as he heard footsteps ringing off the stone walls.

It was not an elf approaching, seeing as he could actually hear the person, and it was too tall to be a dwarf. One of the men from Gondor, then. Wonderful. The Valar simply wanted to amuse themselves by taking the heir to the throne of Gondor, shoving him back in the place he ran from to avoid that very responsibility, and then add in the current ruling family of the kingdom just to make things interesting. It wasn't as though Aragorn wanted the throne - far from it - but he had been raised with elves, and was therefore wary of any man, especially one in charge. Aragorn watched silently as the man walked into view, seemingly enamoured by the murals of Isildur. Oh, Aragorn had forgotten the best part of this particular scenario. Of course he had to choose the one room that depicted his ancestor's greatest moment right before his greatest failing.

The man looked over at him, human instincts finally telling him that there was another being present. Aragorn struggled to keep his face a blank mask. He would keep his heritage a secret, for as long as possible. There was no need to antagonize a disciple of Gondor. However, as he looked at him, Aragorn had the sinking feeling that this was not only a man of Gondor, but in fact the next heir to the throne. Boromir. Was it possible for this day to get any worse?

"You are no elf."

Oh, wait, it was.

Allowing a small smirk to climb over his face, Aragorn decided he would try to be civil. And vague. "Men of the South are welcome here."

"Who are you?"

So much for that plan. "I am a friend to Gandalf the Grey."

"Then we are here on common purpose... friend."

Aragorn resisted smirking, though he was glad to see that he had made an uneasy ally rather than an enemy. He would see how long that would last. It was just, he really didn't want this man as an ally. There was something about him that Aragorn didn't like. As Boromir turned his attention to Narsil. The blade was one of legend, and Aragorn hoped and prayed that the man would treat it with respect. He was not sure that he could even act civil if the man disrespected such an important piece of history. Boromir obviously knew what it was, and Aragorn tried to reserve judgement as he gripped the sword by the hilt. Only a king should wield that power... but this man was as close to royalty as Narsil would see.

"It's still sharp."

The man's voice was one of reverence and awe, and Aragorn relaxed minutely. It was a childlike curiosity rather than any disrespectful purpose that drove him to hold the blade like a common dagger. If he knew nothing of elfish blades, and had only heard of Narsil from vague Westron legends, then he could mean no harm. That didn't mean that Aragorn would take is eyes off the man. As the son of Gondor looked at him in return, he could see fear mixing with respect in his eyes, and his gut clenched in response. That was not a look that promised anything good.

"No more than a broken heirloom."

And he let the blade clatter to the ground.

Aragorn knew pride, had seen it often in the face of Legolas and Thranduil, but that was always mixed with knowledge of the world, and a sense of right and wrong. Their pride was built on reputation and great deeds, not fear such as that of this man. Gondor was in peril, and its rulers were trying to hold face against the dark. But this was not the way to accomplish it. Boromir was walking away, and Aragorn could see the moment that he stopped, wanted to turn back and show Narsil the respect it deserved, but he kept on walking. Aragorn lifted the blade, and for a moment he couldn't help himself. He adjusted his grip, feeling the elfish weapon respond to the touch of a king.

But he was no king, he reminded himself. He was no one. A ranger from the South. Just a man.

Aragorn replaced the weapon with reverence, placing his hand over his heart in tribute. As he stepped back, he felt a familiar presence behind him. He wanted to badly to turn and greet her, but that path brought only pain and loss for them both. He had made his decision long ago. She spoke of Isildur and the tainted blood he had passed down the line, but she said that it was different. That he was not bound to Isildur's fate. It was a lie, however pretty and tempting it may be. He was cursed, bound by the failure of his forefathers, and that was why he could never be king. He would destroy Arda just as his ancestors had. He was weak, and he told Arwen such.

She stepped forward, bringing them closer than they had been since she had dragged Frodo from the clutches of the Nazgûl. She spoke words of prophecy and hope. The Shadow had not grasped them... but it was only a matter of time. Arwen saw the pain in his eyes, and silently grasped his hand. He should not have followed her, especially knowing the pain that would come from it, but he was weak. He was a coward. He was lost. She brought them to the gardens, and spoke of their first meeting. She told him of happier days, when they were younger and had not yet learned such horrors of the world. And then she spoke of the words that had driven him from Imladris, more than his father's fury, more than his fear of being king. She had offered up her life so that she could be with him. And that was something he could not allow.

"No."

She gave him her pendant, the heirloom passed down from Galadriel to Celebrian to Arwen herself, and the symbol of her people. He could not take it, he was not worthy, but she insisted. It was hears to give to whom she willed, just as it was his to refuse to take. But she insisted... and she was giving up the life of her people. He could see it in her fäe. She was becoming mortal. It was all his fault. And yet... it was all he had ever wanted. She was offering up a life with him, and he had no choice but to accept. He was weak, and she was the light that drove away the dark. He would regret this, for the rest of his life he was sure, but for just a moment he allowed himself to be pulled in by her, and they met in a gentle kiss.


End file.
